


do you wanna be my sidekick

by weatheredlaw



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Challenge: Fic a Day in May, Cohabitation, Multi, Post-War, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 03:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6735658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like Tucker keeps saying - Red and Blue is the same, it doesn't matter anymore. Especially not where it counts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	do you wanna be my sidekick

**Author's Note:**

> for fic-a-day in may, one of those i've had on hand for a while in case of cannot-post emergency. like tonight, when i have three projects due this week.

The shuttle is idling outside the port at one in the morning, and Tucker's still no closer to figuring out just where he's supposed to go than he was four days ago, when the orders first came in. Orders to go home. Orders to pack their shit and wait for transport out of the canyon. The day before, Tucker had watched Caboose disappear into a mob of girls, each of them shrieking, not one looking anything like the other. He remembers that, once, Caboose told him about all his sisters. How he was technically an only child. How his folks bought a big house and were going to fill it with kids. How dad died and mom opened the house up, grieved and stood up and dusted herself off and took in as many girls as she could. 

Three days after their orders come in, Tucker loses Caboose to his mob of a family and smiles. And then the shuttle docks at the port in Hawaii and Tucker has no idea where to go. They took Church, the night before it was time to leave. They came in and they took him and Tucker didn't even hear it happen. He woke up and Church was gone and Caboose was scared and the UNSC was standing shoulder to shoulder in their canyon, demanding after all this time that they obey orders. 

Standing at the port, Tucker still doesn't know if that was the right choice afterall.

 

 

 

"Where are you even from?" Grif asks. Tucker's allowed four hours off the shuttle before he needs to get back home. 

"L.A." 

"That blows," he says, looking like he really means it. They're sitting outside at a picnic table of a place that Grif swears has the best Spam and eggs he's ever had. Simmons had tried to tell him that Spam didn't taste different in other parts of the world, but Grif's home, now, and Simmons is staying with him, and he's in no place to argue. Grif's got the homefield advantage. "You should stay here, man. It's way nicer. California is, like, the armpit of America."

"That actually makes sense," Tucker mutters, tossing back his rum and coke, setting the empty glass back down on the table. "Fuck."

"You shouldn't drink before you fly," Simmons says, coming back with their food. Tucker shrugs and digs into his plate, shoveling rice into his mouth and trying not to think about how there's no one even _in_ L.A. for him. How mom's gone and dad's gone and they took Junior and told him to call them about the kid in a year. Tucker doesn't think about that because it's an actual, living, physical ache and he would rather eat the sand under their table than think about how he'll probably never see his kid again. 

" _Tucker._ " Grif's waving his fork in Tucker's face, trying to get his attention, mouth turning up in a smile at the corners. "Dude, where'd you go?"

"Fuck. Sorry."

"Whatever. We think you should just stay here with us." He shoves some egg into his mouth. "My sister comes back next week, but she moved out I guess while I was gone. There's two bedrooms." Tucker shrugs. "I mean, you can go to LA if you want, you just don't seem too excited.

"There's no one there."

"Okay, I'm not, like, super interested in you telling me sad shit? So maybe we can save that for like an overshare night or something if we become roommates. But if you're gonna be depressed and alone when you get back, you should just stay here. I can't do much about you being depressed, but I can give you somewhere to live. And you can be sad here. On an _island_ , man." Grif shrugs. "I can't think of a nicer place to be sad." 

Tucker looks around. The beach is nice. He could learn to surf. He could lay there for hours and mope, maybe, or get a sandwich and a beer and mope somewhere else. He could get a job on the beach, swim in the ocean. Hell, maybe they'd give him Junior, or at least let him visit. They could make, like, fucking sandcastles or something. Father-son stuff. 

"Yeah," Tucker finally says, looking at Grif. "Okay, I'll stay." 

 

 

 

Grif's sister turns out to have some kind of on-again, off-again boyfriend who apparently surfs for a living, or something. Tucker isn't sure. All he's sure about is Grif doesn't like him, but Kai is more than capable of making her own decisions. And Tucker's not giving this room back. He can see the fucking ocean from here. 

It's not a problem getting his stuff sent here from back home (there wasn't much of it), or telling anyone he wouldn't be coming back (there weren't many people to tell) -- the biggest problem is sleeping without waking himself up screaming. Because when he closes his eyes, he sees and hears things he'd really rather not.

Exploding heads. Dead aliens. The shrill sound of Church's armor dying on the cliffside. 

He wakes up early, the first shreds of light always gripping him from sleep, reminding him that darkness is new and he should fear it. He crawls out of bed and contemplates the sunrise, how the mechanics of it work. He's forgotten so many things. 

"Coffee." Grif hands him a chipped mug. "Dunno how you take it."

"This is good." Tucker sits down at the kitchen table, tracing the patterns in the wood with his finger. "Thanks for letting me be here." Grif nods, looking in his fridge for something to eat. Silence settles back between them, but not uneasily. He'd be lying if he said he ached for small talk or the familiar bickering of his team. Not today, anyway. Maybe another one. Maybe some other time. 

Around noon, Tucker heads out to job hunt. Sitting for hours in the apartment in his boxers, watching Grif play video games while Simmons gets some kind of programming gig worked out is only going to be a novelty for five more minutes. Tucker needs a chance to get away, to give the apartment a chance to become a refuge, before it becomes a prison. He hunts for a week before he ends up at a recruiting office, wondering what it would be like to re-enlist. 

Instead, he gets a job processing soldiers coming back home, asking them basic exit interview questions and handing them off to someone who is apparently qualified to determine whether the returning troops need therapy or not. Tucker doubts their qualifications. They told him he was just fine. Grif gets a job at an autoshop not long after, and they settle into a sort of bizarre imitation of domesticity. Punctuated, of course, by nightmares and fits of insomnia and watching a lot of _Lost_ re-runs. All in all, Tucker can't complain much.

Well, he can complain a little. 

Grif and Simmons sometimes have really loud sex.

It's not the Tucker especially _cares_ that they're sometimes loud when they fuck. He's never going to complain about that, not when he can kind of quietly get off to it, if it sounds good. Helps him sleep sometimes, too. Honestly, there isn't anything _about_ the sex or them having it that upsets him at all. Except for the fact that after a while, he can't get off to it anymore. That after a few weeks, it stops really _doing_ anything for him. And suddenly he's laying in bed, imagining how the two of them look when they fuck. Imagining how it would look if he watched, or got in the middle, or put one of their cocks in his mouth and let them _use_ him. 

Tucker can only come when he thinks about _that_. It's starting to become a problem. 

 

 

 

"Am I gonna get paid?" 

"I can't answer that."

"Look, man, it's a fuckin' simple-ass question."

"And the simple-ass answer is I _can't answer that._ " Tucker hands over some paperwork to the soldier in front of him. "You need to go to the payroll terminal to figure that out."

"Fuck you," the guys says, and Tucker kind of agrees. He isn't allowed to tell anyone anything that he might actually know about their personnel files. Like if they're going to be getting a certain bracket of severence pay, or if they'll be reimbursed for damage taken during the war. Tucker doesn't know what they want from him, why they can't see that he isn't exactly qualified to tell them anything. Don't they know he's just as fucked up? That if he had the answers even _he_ wanted, he wouldn't be here? 

Tucker's sticking as close to the UNSC as possible, just to get some word about Junior. On the off-chance that, if they see who he's working for, maybe they'll trust him with the truth. Whatever that truth is, however hard it may be. 

But it's getting tough, sitting behind a desk and telling people _I don't know._ Or, _I can't tell you._ It sucks. It's why the apartment has become the exact refuge Tucker wanted it to be, loud sex or not. When he gets home at night, Grif's usually already there, cooking something or on the balcony trying to start the grill, swearing and kicking at it. Simmons is chopping things, handing him a beer, asking him about his day.

"Shitty," Tucker usually says, or some variation of that. Simmons always nods. 

Today, Tucker comes home and Simmons isn't there, which is weird. Super weird, actually.

"Uh--"

"Simmons is at a dumb thing teaching dumb science to super smart kids. Or something." Grif comes in off the patio with some grilled chicken and pineapple. "He'll be back late."

"Oh." Tucker was definitely going to ask where Simmons was, but he definitely didn't expect Grif to just know. Unsettling, but kind of nice. He gets a couple of beers out of the fridge. "Smells good."

"It's meat and fruit. Can't get better than that, dude." 

"Awesome." They sit on the couch, the plate settled between the two of them, watching the local news and making fun of the news anchors. Tucker likes Grif because Grif speaks his language. He doesn't pry when he isn't supposed to, doesn't ask questions when he knows they're not welcome. Sot it's not really surprising that he knows that _now_ , today, right here -- is a good time to ask: "You doin' okay?"

Tucker pops the last bite of pineapple in his mouth and shrugs. "Guess so. Why?"

"It's been a couple months. I know we don't all talk, like, a whole lot. I just wanna be sure you're not becoming clinically depressed in there and I've been out here being a _shit_ roommate and not doing anything about it."

"Dude, I'm fine. I mean, you're a shitty roommate, but that's because you leave your socks on the kitchen table."

"They're wool. You can't just _dry them_ , Tucker. It's like Donut didn't teach you anything."

Tucker laughs. "Glad he rubbed off on someone."

"Poor word choice."

"Yeah, it sounded better in my head."

Grif nods. "Okay. I mean, good, I guess. It's good you're doing okay. Simmons wanted me to ask because he's more in touch with his emotions than me, but worse at talking about them. Maybe if I translated what he needed to say into, like, Javascript or something."

"And now I guess _Simmons_ is rubbing off on you."

"Yeah, you know, I just love it when people rub me? Makes me feel special and shit."

"Not even what I was talking about," Tucker says, laughing. "But okay." 

"Good. Glad we had this talk." Grif leans back into the sofa and flips through the channels a few more times before turning it off and tossing the remote onto the coffee table, groaning. "Okay, fuck it. I can't actually _not_ do this anymore."

Tucker scowls. "Dude, what the hell?"

"Do you wanna sleep with us?" 

It is definitely probably most likely a _dream_ that Tucker is having right now. Because there is no way in hell that Grif knows what he's been thinking since pretty much day one. There's no _way_ that Grif could know what Tucker's thinking when he puts his hand on his dick every night, what he wakes up thinking about and gets in the shower thinking about and distracts himself at work thinking about it. He shouldn't be thinking about it, and Grif shouldn't _know_ that he's thinking about it -- but he's thinking about it. 

"Uh--"

"We like you. We think you like us."

"I--"

"We also think you're hot and we want to know if you'll sleep with us."

"Okay, is Simmons _actually_ busy?"

Grif nods. "He is, and we were gonna wait a little while longer to do this, but I thought I might fucking _die_ if I didn't ask you. Just trying to protect myself here." He doesn't make any move toward Tucker, doesn't reach out to touch him or draw him in. He stays exactly where he is, exactly as he is, and says steadily and evenly, "It helps. Us, anyway. Touching and...and being together. It helps. And I'm not saying it's going to help you, because I don't know what's going on in your head or what it's like. I don't even know if you _want_ help or feel like you need to get better because, hell, what the fuck do I know?" Tucker nods, because he has a point. "But if you...if you need someone. Or something. Then we're here. It doesn't even have to be _sex_ , man. Like...like sometimes we don't fuck. Actually, we spend most of the time _not_ fucking." He laughs, and it shatters the tension and Tucker laughs, too.

"I hear you guys, you know. When you do."

"Yeah." Grif ducks his head. "We, uh. We kinda thought you did. Wasn't intentional--"

"Dude, it's cool. I liked it."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely." Grif still hasn't moved any closer, so Tucker decides to chance it, shifting himself so he's facing Grif directly, reaching out to take one of his hands. Grif lets him. "I like you guys. You're alright, for a couple of assholes."

"You're gonna make me cry," Grif says dryly.

"I don't know what I'm ready for. But I would...I would like to sleep there. With you. If that's, like. Okay."

"Dude, that's kind of what I meant. Three-way sleepover. Bed's fucking _huge._ "

Tucker grins. " _Awesome._ "

Later, Simmons still isn't back, and Tucker and Grif crawl into the bed together, face to face, trying to make sense of it.

"Is it weird?" Grif asks.

"Not really." 

"I'm tired."

Tucker nods. He tries to say, _Me, too_ , but somewhere between thinking about saying it and not saying it, he falls asleep, only waking up when the weight in the bed shifts and he realizes Simmons is there. He keeps his eyes closed. 

"Did you talk to him?"

"No, he was just here when I went to bed," Grif drawls. " _Ow._ Don't poke me."

"Asshole."

"Whatever." Tucker feels Grif roll over, closer to Simmons. It leaves the space between them to cool.

"Is he okay?"

"I think so."

"Does he..."

Grif shrugs. "Dunno. We should take it easy."

Simmons snorts. "Real stretch for you there."

"Go the fuck to sleep, man." Grif cuts Simmons off with a kiss from the sound of it, and Tucker feels himself drift off again. 

 

 

 

Tucker and Simmons don't talk much about their new arrangement. Simmons tells him once that he's glad Tucker wanted to be with them, and Tucker tells him he can only talk about his feelings once every financial quarter and he's filled his quota. Simmons flips him off. 

They do this for a while. Sleep in the same bed, push each others' buttons. For two weeks they do this, and no one talks about sex. No one brings it up. Grif and Simmons don't ask Tucker to leave so they can have it, and they don't make him feel like he's stopping them. 

Because Tucker knows he wants it. Or at least, he knows he _will_. Or maybe he _thinks_ he will. It's just a matter of _when_. Or, you know, _if._ Something like that. Tucker's life has a lot more questions in it than it used to. And this isn't a bad thing, not really -- but it's not making things any easier.

There's a week where Grif starts spending a lot of nights at the shop and it's just Tucker and Simmons, cooking for themselves, awkwardly watching TV. Tucker hadn't realized what kind of buffer Grif was for them until he was suddenly gone, and now he's here, eating gnocchi with the guy who isn't his boyfriend, but also not his _nothing_. Simmons doesn't seem to sense the tension at all, and chats with Tucker through the evening news, asks him about work, and takes both their plates and starts doing the dishes. Tucker follows him into the kitchen to help.

"Nice to work together for a change," Simmons says, nudging him with his elbow.

"I told you guys, like, a million years ago. Red and blue are the same."

"Says the chip in your brain."

"And the fluoride in my water." 

Simmons laughs out loud at this, and it may be the first time Tucker's heard that sound. Like, ever. It's a good sound, and he thinks Simmons should do it more often. When he feels like it. Shoulder to shoulder at the sink, they settle into something quiet, and Tucker thinks that maybe _this_ is their own thing. That he and Grif can be gently belligerent with one another, and the three of them can be mean to each other, and Grif and Simmons can do whatever it is _they_ do -- but this, this kind of quiet companionship, it can be a thing for just them. 

Tucker dries the last dish and they go back to the couch, sitting closer than before. Tucker eases into the comfortable thing they've made here and leans against Simmons, who stretches an arm around his shoulders and rests his hand on Tucker's arm, toying with the hem of his t-shirt. 

"They put fluoride in your water," Tucker says. "Don't they?"

Simmons rolls his eyes. "Sometimes I hate both of you," he says, but he's smiling. 

And Tucker can't think of anything he wants to do more than kiss him, so he sits up and looks at Simmons and says, "Can I kiss you?" with all the courage he can muster.

He's seen and done so much, you'd think something like this would be easy.

Simmons laughs again, and it makes Tucker feel _good_ , knowing he's made it happen twice now. "Yeah. Totally."

"Awesome." Tucker leans forward and Simmons just lets him slide into his space, like he was always supposed to be there. Simmons has long octopus arms that snake around Tucker's back and pull him in, fingers that cup the back of his neck and hold him close. It's slow and decadent and everything Tucker's been waiting for, for such a long time. 

"You guys couldn't even wait til I got home. This is so sad." 

Tucker looks up and Grif is closing the door, grinning and tossing his keys onto the counter. "Not our fault you're slow as shit."

"Don't worry." Grif toes off his shoes and heads toward the shower. "I'll make up for it later."


End file.
